Only By My Dreams SongFic of Non Toxic SR71
by Pixie Silver Stardust
Summary: Tommy Stone, formerly Brian Slade is backtracking through his life and wrote a short poem out of it. Thinking over things he misses and wants more then anything. (Please read and review!)


Song Fic- "Non Toxic" by SR-71  
  
FanFiction characters based off of Velvet Goldmine.  
  
Copyright Pixie Silver Stardust July, 2004  
  
Thomas Brian Slade, formally known as Tommy Stone, his newly found rock persona. You remember him, the Glam God, you all worshipped him when he was simply Brian Slade. Then there was the fact that he faked his own death, but who could blame him? His whole world was falling apart in front of him. If you ask him about it, he'll simply say "you would have done the same." Who knows? Maybe we all would have. If you look at it from Brian's, I'm sorry.. Tommy's point of view. I mean, he lost his wife, Mandy. He lost his lover, Curt. All he had left were drugs and a false impression on the world. And although drugs may have sufficed for a while, it couldn't fulfill him completely and that's why he may have done it.  
  
If you remember correctly, when we left our Glam God last, a journalist named Arthur had just revealed the fact that Brian Slade did IN FACT fake his own death. Not only that, he found proof that Tommy Stone and Brian Slade were the same person. Inevitable how everything can fall apart again, eh? Now, he sits in his hotel room avoiding confrontation from the press on the subject. He knows it's true. And he wishes he never did it. He wishes he could just be back in Curt's arms again, safe and secure. As we know, things change. People change. And there's nothing you can do about it. And he's no longer Brian Slade. Only in his mind does Brian still truly exist.  
  
He got up out of his chair and walked over to the mirror in the bathroom, brushing the loose hairs out of his face to see what all the make-up had done to him. He hardly recognized himself anymore. "'Ello Tommy," he whispered as he turned the faucet on the sink to start the water. He grabbed the soap firmly, pushing it under the warm water and wetting it, he then lathered his face with the cheap hotel soap. When he rinsed off the soap with water, he whispered, "Until next time, Tommy." He grabbed a towel from behind him and wiped off his face, looking ahead into the mirror again he smiled. A slight smile, but a smile in the least. "'Ello again, Brian." He decided he'd put a little eyeliner on in case anybody decided to barge in for a quick interview. He finished with that and walked out into the bedroom again.  
  
He sighed, the loneliness of the empty hotel room was almost too much to bear. He leaned over and grabbed his notebook and a pen. He opened to a clear page and tapped the back of the pen lightly against the paper. He sighed and ran his finger through his hair, letting it fall down around his face. Poising the pen on the paper, he finally began to write:   
  
"I'm one of those things you save forever,  
  
But never need."   
  
He pondered over what he wrote, thinking of the truth to it. He thought to himself, 'Isn't it lovely when things just come out of your mind and onto paper without you thinking about it. Then to top it off they become some of the most truthful words you've ever written?' He read over the words a few more times before continuing.   
  
"Like an old newspaper,  
  
No one has time to read."   
  
Again, he contemplated the line that came out. Thinking, 'It's truth, but truth isn't always logical, as they say. And it's true, there's no logic in it, in fact it barely makes any sense to me and I wrote it. But it's truthful.' He paused his thoughts for a moment, thinking over what to write next.   
  
"This child has grown into a dead end  
  
Since I lost the power to pretend."   
  
'That could explain a lot. People are screwed up when they get to serious too soon.' He sighed, very surprised as everything he was writing down on the paper. 'I wish I could still pretend to be myself.' The regretful thoughts were crowding his mind and he decided not to get cynical and just write on.   
  
"But it's alright  
  
That's who I am inside  
  
Not much to say  
  
On this non toxic, ordinary day"   
  
He had no thoughts to even comprehend what he was writing at this point. He just sat quietly inside and out trying to make sense of it. He came to the conclusion that it made a lot of sense. Everything was so ordinary, there was nothing risky anymore around him. It was like he was living in Elision Fields, everything good was going on, but it's happened so many times before, the same way before. It's so ordinary now. It's non toxic.   
  
"That's no superhero  
  
Standing right in front of us  
  
So turn this pocket full of kryptonite  
  
And beat it back to metropolis"   
  
This was all contrary to popular belief. He was still thought of as a superhero. He wasn't Brian Slade or Maxwell Demon anymore, but he was Tommy Stone. He was still loved, but he was loved for a complete lie. How could he be thought of as a superhero? He was a nothing. A fable you read in books. Brian was real, but he threw that away. All of it, away. Gone. Forever.   
  
"There's only room for one at this microphone  
  
In my finest hours I'm still alone"   
  
It was perhaps inevitable how much these all seemed to make sense. He was selfish, he wanted to be the person all eyes were on. And he refused to have it any other way. But, he was so alone. He yearned for more then this. He longed for Curt's warm embrace. Even Mandy's lovely lips. Anything to make him feel alive again. And now, he had himself. The only thing everyone thought he could possibly ever love. Now he was just alone.   
  
"But old news can change  
  
As memories float down stream  
  
So, don't judge me by my failures  
  
Only by my dreams."  
  
And he decided to leave it at that. What else was there to say? He was sick of explaining things to himself. Although it was quite clear to him that he wanted the memories to go away. He hated remembering everything. Every damn failure kept coming back. Every mistake. Every regret. It haunted him like a ghost. And he hated being judged by that. But, tomorrow night when he got up onstage again, he was going to tell them. With the song who he really was. Would they still love him? Worship him? Even care? He didn't know.  
  
"So don't judge me by my failures, only by my dreams," he whispered to himself as he put the notebook to the side and laid down in his bed, turned up and staring at the ceiling. 


End file.
